


swim me to the stars

by Lenaellsi



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Banter, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Injuries, Panic Attacks, Queerplatonic Relationships, Self-Esteem Issues, but zolf is the most awkward person alive and wilde is allergic to sincerity so godspeed lads, they're figuring out what they mean to each other, undefined relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenaellsi/pseuds/Lenaellsi
Summary: Zolf worries, Wilde is characteristically tactless, and some things take time to relearn—but hey. They’ve got this.
Relationships: Zolf Smith & Oscar Wilde, Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde
Comments: 30
Kudos: 72





	swim me to the stars

Zolf likes to think he has grown a lot as a person over the past couple of years, which is why he doesn’t panic when Wilde goes missing just before dinner.

(Although really, he’d be perfectly justified if he _did_ panic. The man’s been resurrected for less than a day. Completely irresponsible, fucking off like that without telling anyone where he’s going. But Wilde is a grown man who can take care of himself, especially now that the shackles are gone, so it’s _fine._ Everything’s fine.)

“Oh, dear,” Hamid says, wincing, when Zolf stomps his way over to where he’s set himself up in a pile of bolts of cloth. He’s been working on new winter coats for those whose clothing was damaged in the crash, and Zolf can only assume that the small mountain of furs next to him is meant for Azu. “Um. Is everything all right, Zolf?”

“You seen Wilde?” Zolf demands.

“Not since lunch,” Hamid says. His eyebrows do something…meaningful. “I assumed he was with you.”

“He was. Bastard vanished.”

“Do you mean literally? Because I think Oscar is able to turn invisible, so that might be—”

“No,” Zolf snaps. He takes a deep breath; he knows he tends to lash out at Hamid when he’s stressed, which isn’t fair, especially when Hamid’s only trying to help. “I went to talk to Earhart for five minutes and he’s just—gone.”

Hamid sets aside his sowing. “I could help you look for him if you like.”

He’s always so damned _earnest._ “No, don’t—don’t worry about it, it’s probably fine. I’m just, uh. Jumpy. I guess.”

“That’s perfectly fair, under the circumstances,” Hamid says softly. “But I’m sure he’s all right.”

“Yeah,” Zolf says, and does not think about the way Wilde had been when they’d first started working together again, how the aftermath of the curse had left him thin and haggard, slurring his words and jumping at shadows.

No. Wilde had said that the curse was gone, said he could feel the difference. He’s fine.

(Gods. Is Zolf being _clingy?_ That’s embarrassing.)

“Thanks, Hamid,” Zolf mumbles. He turns towards the doors to the bunk rooms, vaguely hoping that Wilde might have just gone for a nap. (Never mind that the odds of Wilde voluntarily sleeping more than three hours a day have been depressingly low for as long as Zolf’s known him.)

“Just let me know if you need help!” Hamid calls after him. Zolf gives him a halfhearted wave over his shoulder.

Wilde isn’t in the bunks, and Zolf is still _not panicking,_ which is exactly what he says to Cel when they find him frantically pacing the hallway by the canteen.

“You could ask Carter or Sassraa,” they say. “They’ve got that—you know. Whatever’s going on with the three of them.”

None of them have talked about it yet. There’s an unspoken agreement among the crew that consequences and next steps are something to be dealt with tomorrow, and the weird psychic bond between the newly-revived members of their party falls firmly in that category.

“I’ll talk to Carter, I guess,” Zolf says reluctantly. “Still haven’t picked up much Draconic. Can’t get my head around it.”

Cel laughs. “Sassraa says the same thing about English.”

Carter is sat at one of the long tables in the canteen with Azu, Kiko, Frederick, and Barnes, arguing over a game of marbles. (He’d mentioned something earlier about getting some kind of ‘underground trade’ going within the city. Zolf had been grudgingly impressed that it had taken all of twelve hours back from the dead for him to start inventing newer and stupider crimes.) When Cel and Zolf walk in he nudges Barnes and whispers something; Barnes goes suddenly, violently red, and waves at Cel weakly. Cel winks back.

“What’s going on there?” Zolf asks, watching as Barnes cuffs a snickering Carter over the head.

“I’ll tell you when you tell me what’s up with you and Wilde.”

Zolf ignores that, both because he doesn’t quite have an answer yet and because the idea of telling Cel they might have been right all along is mortifying. “Oi, Carter.”

“Zolf,” Carter says, with a sarcastic salute. “What’s our first mate up to?”

“Would you two like to join us?” Azu asks. She is snuggled into Kiko’s side, practically glowing with contentment. Good. She deserves it. “Howard has promised not to cheat too much.”

“Nah, sorry, just—do you know where Wilde went?”

Carter’s face goes blank. After a moment of staring into space he shakes himself, and his eyes refocus on Zolf. “He’s out at the park two blocks up.” He waggles his eyebrows. “He wants you to come find him.”

“Wish he’d told me that before he left,” Zolf grumbles, though the relief is making it difficult to be properly annoyed. “Thanks.”

“Aye aye, boss,” Carter says. When Zolf turns to leave, he calls, “And tell him to cheer the hell up, he’s bringing my whole mood down!”

“Right,” Zolf says, and absolutely does not run from the room, because—well, Wilde’s not a cheery person, right? Nothing is necessarily _wrong._ Carter would’ve mentioned if there was, say, a deadly curse making a reappearance. Or something.

So he doesn’t run. He powerwalks, and he’s got magic legs, so he does it quickly, whatever, shut up.

‘Park’ is maybe a…generous word for the large open deck dotted with potted plants down the street, but the upside to that is that it is easy to spot Wilde. He’s lounging artfully on a bench a bit down the path, twisting his hands together in intricate patterns that leave gold trails sparkling in the air above him. Zolf can see his lips moving, but he’s too far away to hear what he’s singing.

Their eyes meet across the distance. Wilde smirks and whispers something, and then his voice pops into Zolf’s head: _Miss me already?_

Zolf rolls his eyes. _Now you’re just showing off,_ he replies, beginning to make his way through the small crowd. A couple of halfling children run past him; one has stark white hair in long plaits down their back, and the other has skin tinted a deep red. Up ahead, past Wilde’s bench, there is a cluster of ents congregated around a small fountain.

“You’ll know when I’m showing off,” Wilde calls. He pats the seat next to him. “Room for one more.”

Hearing those words again doesn’t sting like Zolf would have expected. Maybe it’s because it’s the real Wilde looking at him this time and not the too-young, too-posh stranger from the astral plane; maybe it’s the sounds of life around and below them, the shouts of children and the lumbering steps of the bear a constant buffer against the silence. Either way, when Zolf sits, he feels far removed from the bleak hours when Wilde had been dead.

“What’re you up to?” he asks. “Already annoying the locals?”

“Oh, you know,” Wilde says airily, “just getting my _bear_ ings.”

Zolf takes a moment to regret that it is far too cold to safely cast create water over Wilde’s head, and settles for a long, heavy sigh. “You’re a professional nuisance, do you know that?”

“I’m sorry, Zolf,” Wilde says, batting his eyelashes obnoxiously. “Do you truly find me so un _bear_ able?”

“It’s fine. You’ve had a rough couple days, least I can do is let you em _bear_ ass yourself.”

That shocks a real laugh out of him, something snorting and inelegant that brings an involuntary smile to Zolf’s lips. “You’re indulging me today, then?”

“Don’t get used to it. Why’d you sneak off?”

“I’ve been practicing.” Wilde hums, and a burst of violet light leaps from his fingertips into the sky above them, shaping itself into the form of a sleeping bear. “Cantrips, mostly, though I am open to requests. I’d like to be back in top form before we leave.”

“You’re pretty quiet. Most bards I’ve met make a big production out of the music bit.”

Wilde casts him a scandalized look, neatly sidestepping the implied question. “How many other bards do you know? Should I be jealous?”

Zolf snorts. “Nah. Had a couple spellcasters on board when I was doing the pirate thing. One of ‘em cast with shanties.” 

Wilde’s face does that thing it does when he’s trying and failing not to be condescending. “How…unique.”

“Yeah, it was a nightmare. He was an okay healer, but I’d take a concussion over the eighth round of ‘Blow the Man Down’ any day.’”

Wilde grins wickedly. “ _I_ could do with eight rounds of ‘Blow the Man—”

Zolf shoves him. “You’re a menace.”

“Flatterer.” Wilde starts humming again—this time one of the few sailing songs they allow on Navy vessels, something he must have picked up from Barnes—and cups his hands; when he opens them, a tiny ship made of dancing lights drifts out onto the breeze. It’s beautiful, of course. Wilde’s too much of a perfectionist to allow anything less.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Wilde shrugs. The ship flickers with his concentration, fading when he turns his gaze on Zolf. “It’s not coming back as easily as I’d like, honestly.”

There’s trust in that admission—Zolf knows Wilde never would have said as much to anyone else. “It’s been a while. Give it some time.”

“Sure,” Wilde says, with a small, self-deprecating smile that Zolf doesn’t like at all. “The pretty spells are casting fine, but that’s no surprise. Style over substance has always been where I excel.”

Zolf frowns. “That’s not true.”

Wilde waves him off. “Yes, yes, I’m a singular talent, obviously, but we both know that being gifted with a pen means very little when the infected come knocking.” 

“Wilde—”

“When did you take the cuffs off?” Wilde interrupts.“Before the ritual began, I hope. It would have been quite awkward if they’d gone to all the trouble and you’d forgotten.”

“…Yeah, it was before then,” Zolf says. “I, uh.” He takes a breath, starts again, clenches his fists against a tremor. He’s feeling the cold, suddenly, in a way he normally doesn’t. “I had to—to cast a spell to preserve the bodies. While we waited to be brought up.”

“Ah.” Wilde looks down at his hands, thoughtful. “It’s strange—I don’t actually remember how it happened. Was it just the fall?”

Zolf shakes his head, though it does little to quiet the ringing in his ears. “Debris,” he says hollowly. “Through the heart.”

“Would’ve been instant, then. That’s a little disappointing. I’ve written out my dying words, you know, and they’re very touching. I’d hate for them to go to waste.”

“Mmhmm,” Zolf says, thinking about twisted metal and bloody snow. His next breath is more of a gasp, high and sharp, and Wilde’s attention snaps back to him.

“Oh,” he says, voice pitching in alarm. “Oh, you’re—oh.”

Zolf curls into himself and buries his face in his hands, trembling. That explains why he’s so cold, at least.

“Zolf?”

“Shock,” Zolf says gruffly. “Didn’t let myself feel it then, too much to do. Knew it’d come back ‘round sooner or later _._ ” He tries for a deep breath, stutters on the exhale. _“Fuck.”_

“Should I—should I get Azu?”

Gods, they’re both so useless with this stuff. Zolf looks up and glares. “Don’t _leave.”_

“Right,” Wilde says, nodding a little frantically. “Right, that’s—oh! I can—” he murmurs something, a verse of what sounds suspiciously like a limerick set to a tune Zolf can’t place, and brushes a hand against Zolf’s forehead.

It feels a little like the second time he was struck by lightning at Shoin’s base: painless, because at that point his nerves had been too damaged to register pain, but sharp like ice from the base of his spine up through to his skull. “What the _fuck,”_ he wheezes, pressing a hand to his chest. He can feel his heart pounding even through his thick overcoat.

“Oh,” Wilde says, dropping his hand sheepishly. “Not good?” 

“Did you just _invigorate_ me?”

“I’d normally insist on dinner first—sorry, sorry. Yes?” 

Zolf makes a strangled noise. _“Why?”_

“It’s always worked for me!”

Of course Wilde magics himself through his trauma. Idiot. “Shut _up.”_

“Will do,” Wilde says weakly. After a moment, he slips off his coat and drapes it over Zolf’s shoulders, wrapping an awkward arm around him. “This okay?”

“You’ll get cold,” Zolf says, through another ragged breath.

“It’s fine, I don’t get cold anymore.”

Because he’d _died_. Zolf starts hyperventilating.

“Shit,” Wilde says.

Zolf laughs, high and frenzied. Wilde curses very rarely, only to make a point or when he’s too nervous to choose his words carefully. What a mess of a pair they make.

“I really think I should get Azu—”

Zolf fumbles for his hand, grips it tight, and shakes his head.

“Okay,” Wilde says, looking down at their hands with a kind of bemused acceptance. He moves a little closer, pulling Zolf into his side, and Zolf huddles under his coat and shakes apart.

Zolf knows how to deal with these kinds of attacks. They’re inevitable, between his mind’s natural aversion to positive emotions and his horrifically high-stakes line of work, and he’s learned to manage them, knows what sets them off and what to do in the thick of things. He pulls on that same well of calm and faith he uses in meditation, goes through the breathing exercises that are the only thing he’s kept from seminary, and waits it out.

(It helps, having Wilde there. It’s hard to get trapped in the memory of carrying his body from the wreckage or removing the shackles from his corpse’s ankles when Wilde’s next to him, breathing steadily and occasionally offering an awkward word of comfort.)

Eventually, Zolf manages a good minute of breathing five seconds in, five seconds out, and the nausea-inducing chills give way to numbness. “Think I’m good now,” he says, relieved when his voice comes out steady.

“It’s, um. It’s all right if you’re not?” Wilde says. When Zolf glances up at him, he looks so out of his depth and anxious that it’s almost funny. It’s also very sweet, which is not a word Zolf would have ever expected himself to apply to Oscar Wilde, but they’re in a city on the back of a giant bear, so. Stranger things, and all.

“I’m okay,” he says, squeezing the hand he’s been gripping. “Just. Maybe no jokes about the crash for a bit, yeah?”

Wilde winces. “Right.”

“And giving a person a shot of magic adrenaline during a panic attack is a _really_ stupid idea.” 

“We can’t all be healers.” Wilde’s arm tightens around Zolf’s shoulders, a silent apology. “I did offer to get Azu.”

“If you’d left it would have gotten a lot worse. I’m better with you around.”

“…Oh,” Wilde says, as if Zolf’s suddenly shown his hand—like he hasn’t just spent the last day throwing all his cards face up on the table. Zolf sighs.

“Don’t act like you don’t know that.”

Wilde shakes his head, visibly flustered. “It’s just…it’s strange to hear you say things like that.”

“What,” Zolf scoffs, “it’s strange to hear that you mean something to me?” and Wilde looks down at him, silent, and Zolf thinks, _oh._

“Oscar,” he says quietly. “C’mere.”

Before he can overthink it, Zolf shifts in Wilde’s clumsy half embrace and turns it into a proper hug. They don’t really do this, as a rule—Zolf is too awkward, Wilde too reserved—but it’s nice. Whatever magic the Ursans used has left Wilde running quite a bit warmer than humans usually do, and Zolf finds that their respective heights make it easy to tuck his head into the space between his neck and shoulder.

After a moment, Wilde settles a hand on his back, uncharacteristically gentle. “You never call me Oscar,” he says.

Zolf huffs. “Maybe I’m just feelin’ sentimental.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” 

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Goodness me, I feel so loved,” Wilde says, dry, and Zolf hopes, with a desperation that’s becoming familiar, that he hasn’t just given Wilde a reason to come back, but also a reason to _stay._

Instead of saying that, he says, “Wear your safety harness next time.”

“I _was_ wearing it. It broke.”

 _“What?”_ Zolf pulls away and Wilde blinks at him, dazed. “If Earhart cheaped out on those to stick more spikes on the ship I’ll _skin_ her, I swear—”

“No skinning needed,” Wilde interrupts. “No one else’s broke, just mine. The others—” His face blanks for a moment, and then he shakes himself. “Carter and Sassraa, at least, they weren’t strapped in. They didn’t have time after we got through the aurora. Just my usual luck, I suppose.”

(Zolf makes a note to talk to Cel about upgrading the harnesses anyway. They’ll be made of goddamned adamantine if he has anything to say about it.)

“You really do have shitty luck,” he says. "Are you sure I’m the only one who’s pissed off a god?”

“I should hope not,” Wilde says, affronted. “Only the very dull go their entire lives without angering at least one higher power. I’m a lot of things, Zolf, but I’m certainly not _dull.”_

“My life would be a lot easier if you were.”

“Oh, you’d miss my sparkling personality.”

“…Maybe,” Zolf admits, and when Wilde grins, he can’t help but grin back.

They sit like that together for a few moments, smiling like a pair of idiots. Eventually Wilde gives a little jolt, bringing his other hand to cover Zolf’s.

“You’re freezing,” he scolds.

“Can’t imagine why,” Zolf says, jerking his head towards the snow beginning to coat the ground (fur?) around them. “Give me a minute, I’ll fix myself up.”

“I’ve got it.” Wilde hums something; endure elements settles over Zolf like a warm blanket. (Maybe it’s the sentimental side of him, but Wilde’s magic leaves him feeling a little warmer than his own usually does.)

“I could’ve done that,” Zolf says, just to be difficult.

“I _told_ you, I’ve been trying to practice.”

“Sorry to barge in on your workout.”

Wilde shudders. “Don’t call it that. If I ever start voluntarily exercising I fully expect you to lock me away until I come to my senses.”

“Noted.”

“And while you are, as always, a welcome distraction, I was hoping to work my way past cantrips and status effects this evening.”

Zolf gestures out at the park, which is beginning to clear out (save for a few stragglers who are unsubtly keeping an eye on the two strangers recovering from a very public emotional breakdown). “Go on, then,” he says. “Show me something besides prestidigitation. Last time I saw you trying to do real magic you were drugged out of your mind.”

Wilde makes a face. “Right, Paris. Not my best performance.”

“The tank was all right.”

“The tank was a _miracle.”_

“’S what I said.”

“Decades spent studying the arts and the classics, and I still can’t hope to match your talent for understatement.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You would,” Wilde says, very fondly. “All right. I’ve been meaning to work on my illusions anyway.”

He sits up, clearing his throat and shaking out his hands, obviously readying himself for something quite a bit stronger than endure elements or invigorate. Zolf squints at him, skeptical. “You’re not pushing yourself, right? I know you said you felt fine, but—”

Wilde laughs. “I’m better rested than I’ve been in a decade. Don’t fuss.”

Zolf is not _fussing._ He’s a cleric, he’s allowed to check on people’s health, it’s his whole thing. “Still, just—work your way up, okay?”

“I don’t plan on enchanting an entire city again.” Wilde winks. “Just a single dwarf.”

“I’ve never been enchanted by anything,” Zolf says flatly.

“I’m painfully aware of that, dear.”

Despite all the easy confidence, Wilde’s definitely hesitant when he begins to cast. He has a lovely voice, (because of _course_ he does, the bastard) a soft tenor that resonates oddly in the still winter air. He’s still so quiet, though, self-conscious in a way that’s entirely unlike him, and as the spell builds, Zolf can feel it straining to pull together enough power to sustain itself. Shapes start to form in front of them, hazy and indistinct, and Wilde makes a face and raises his voice—

Zolf feels the spell failure coming before it starts; that fizzling of power in the air, familiar both from his first months in seminary and the time immediately after breaking ties with Poseidon. When Wilde yelps and his palms begin to blister, Zolf is already reaching out, channeling positive energy into him before the burns get the chance to fully form.

“Oi, careful!”

 _“Damn it,”_ Wilde says, collapsing back against the bench. The partial illusions vanish in a swirl of gold. “Just—sorry, just let me—”

“Woah,” Zolf says, alarmed when he starts diving back into song without even taking a breath. “Hey, hey, none of that, give yourself a minute!”

Wilde’s voice breaks off with a crack and he scowls, scrubbing his still-raw hands over his face. “I should be able to cast this in my sleep! I’ve been able to do major images since my first year at Trinity, this isn’t that difficult—”

Zolf frowns, snatching Wilde’s hands up and examining them. His palms are red, but no longer scalded; any more magical healing would probably be overkill.

Zolf starts channeling anyway. Not like he’s been using his magic for anything else up here, and frankly, seeing Wilde injured again isn’t doing his anxiety any favors.

“Okay, two things,” he says sternly, once Wilde’s hands are once again as unnaturally unblemished as they’ve been since the ritual. “One, you haven’t been able to do magic for over a year, and two, you were fucking _dead_ yesterday. I think maybe you get a pass for a spell failure or two.”

“Spell failures can kill,” Wilde snaps. “We don’t have time for mistakes.”

“No one’s gonna attack us here.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Wilde, come on—”

Wilde doesn’t shout when he gets angry—he goes cold. He yanks his hands away, crossing them over his chest, and his tone is icier than the air around them. “Forgive me for not wanting to spend another year being completely useless any time I leave my desk.”

“Stop that,” Zolf growls. “You’ve never been useless— _no,_ shut up, I’m talking. You have a whole team to watch your back in combat, okay? Gods know I’m never letting you out of my fucking sight again, magic or not.”

Wilde laughs, a short, sharp noise devoid of humor. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’ve been a liability to the team ever since we started. You shouldn’t have to be my keeper.”

“I’m not your keeper, I’m your _friend._ I’d look out for you even if you were a big fuck-off dragon. Hell, I look out for Hamid, don’t I?”

“That’s because Hamid needs looking after. One day he’ll fireball himself into a crater.”

Zolf thinks back to Hamid’s retelling of his and Azu’s misadventure in Rome. “He, uh, already has, actually.”

Wilde groans. “Managing you all is going to be what kills me next,” he mutters, and falls into a petulant silence.

Zolf lets him sulk for a bit. Wilde gets like this, sometimes—he’d gone into a real spiral of self-loathing after the incident that had left him with his scar, and while it’s not gotten that bad since, Zolf knows he needs to step carefully. Wilde can be _vicious_ when he’s feeling vulnerable, and Zolf in turn tends to take things personally, and then they don’t speak to each other for days and they’re both miserable. It’s a cycle he doesn’t want to repeat, especially after they’ve just had…whatever breakthrough it is they’ve had.

Still, it’s bloody _cold,_ and besides that, he doesn’t want to let the storm gathering in Wilde’s expression get any worse. He readies himself for a conversation he really can’t afford to screw up.

“You, uh. You said you didn’t remember. What we talked about when…when I came to get you.”

Wilde shakes his head. He’s twisting his hands together, a nervous habit he tends to fall back on when he doesn’t have a pen to fiddle with. “Just vague impressions. I think we had a drink.”

Zolf huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you were pretty insistent on that.”

“You told me, though,” Wilde says, softer now, but still guarded. “You—this morning, you told me what you said.”

“Yeah, what _I_ said, because you deserve to know what you mean to me.” (It’s getting easier, every time he says it.) “But, Wilde…when we were in there, you were so tired from feeling like you had to carry the whole world all on your own that you almost didn’t come back.”

Wilde stays quiet, shoulders hunched. He does not, Zolf notes, look surprised. Zolf ignores the icy shot of fear this sends down his spine and presses on.

“You’ve got your magic back now, and that’s great—I know you’ve missed it—but I don’t want you to think of it as one more burden to carry. We’re all here with you. _I’m_ here with you. Okay?”

“I know that,” Wilde says. He clasps his hands together, so tightly his knuckles turn white. “But I want to be able to do the same for you.”

“You do,” Zolf says, firm. “Magic or not. You always have.”

Wilde looks at him for a long moment, glassy-eyed and searching. Eventually, his shoulders slump and his lips quirk, and Zolf knows they’re past the worst of it for now. “Not always, surely. I seem to remember you threatening to drown me in a bucket moments after we met.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have introduced yourself by breaking and entering.”

“You have no sense of drama.”

“That’s fine. You’re dramatic enough for both of us.” 

“Thank you.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Zolf says, and he can’t make it sound anything other than hopelessly fond. The lightened mood gives him the nerve he needs to push, just a little. “Ridiculous, but also the cleverest bastard I know. You’ll get it back, yeah? Just might take some time, is all.”

Wilde preens a little under the flattery, as he always does (he’s weak to compliments, the vain idiot) and slings an arm around Zolf’s shoulders. “I used to be good, you know. _Really_ good. The Meritocrats recruited me while I was finishing up uni, did I ever tell you? Top of my class in illusions and classics, plus I was pretty enough to travel in the circles where they needed eyes.”

“Modest, too,” Zolf says dryly.

“Modesty is boring. Why be modest when you can be spectacular and know it?”

 _There_ he is. Zolf laughs. “You are so full of yourself.”

“I apologize that humility is not among my many talents,” Wilde says, and he’s playing it up now, a mischievous spark in his eyes that Zolf’s missed dearly. Zolf really shouldn’t encourage him, but he can’t keep the laughter in, and soon enough Wilde’s snickering along with him. For a moment, it’s almost like they’re halfway through a bottle back in their rooms in Japan, back before an infected ex-Meritocratic agent came along to cut open Wilde’s face and freeze over his heart.

When they settle, Zolf leans into Wilde’s side, grateful that things once again feel easy between them. He’s done with leaving things unsaid, though, so he takes a chance, and nudges Wilde gently in the ribs. “Hey. Don’t worry about the magic thing, seriously. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yes, yes, you’re right, as usual,” Wilde sighs. He straightens his coat where it’s still draped over Zolf’s shoulders, a clumsy gesture of affection that makes Zolf’s heart clench. “It’s just—it’s frustrating to feel like I’ve lost a full decade of skill and practice in only a year.”

“Well, look, you’ve been through a lot,” Zolf reasons. “It makes sense that your magic would change with you. It doesn’t mean it’s any less powerful or useful, it just, I don’t know, comes from a different place.”

Wilde considers that. “Like your messy divorce from Poseidon?”

Zolf shrugs. “Sort of? I’m a cleric, so it’s a little different, gods and everything, but same idea.”

“And where do you suppose my magic comes from?”

“Well, you’re a bard, right?”

“Well spotted.”

“Shut up. I just mean—don’t you pull from your, uh, emotions? Or something?”

Wilde makes a face. “I’ve always found emotions more of an inconvenience than an asset. But supposedly, yes.”

Zolf pats him on the knee. “Well, there you go! You just gotta be less repressed.”

“Repression might as well be a required first-year course at Oxford.”

“Oh, wow, did you go to _Oxford?_ You’ve never said.”

Wilde has the audacity to roll his eyes. “Anyone who thinks I’m the petty one between us is deluded.”

“We’re both allowed to be petty.”

“Clearly.” Wilde runs a hand through his shock-white hair; a bit of it falls in his face and he blinks, then tugs at it ruefully. “I keep forgetting.”

“You’re making it work.”

Wilde scoffs. “Of course I am,” he says, but he looks pleased. “I don’t—I never had to think about magic this much. It’s always come easily.”

“Well, look. You cast endure elements and invigorate just fine. Simple stuff, but not cantrips, so they had to come from somewhere, right?”

“Yes, but those were for—” Wilde starts, and then cuts himself off, eyebrows flying up in realization. “…Ah.”

“What?”

Wilde—is he _blushing?—_ purses his lips. “Nothing. Am I allowed to try again?”

“If you take it easy.”

“Gracious of you. Ask me for something.”

“…Uh. What?”

“As you so astutely pointed out,” Wilde says, all arch and haughty the way he gets when he’s embarrassed,“I am a _bard._ I need a source of inspiration, particularly if I’m going to be conjuring illusions out of nothing.”

What does that—

Oh. _Ha._

Zolf smirks, delighted when Wilde’s blush deepens. “Wow. I’ve never been called _inspiring_ before.”

“I can’t imagine why, what with your effortless wit and charm.” His voice is so dry Zolf half expects it to evaporate the snow falling around them. “I just need something to work off of—a scene, a song, anything. Look, I’ll put on that play you wanted.”

“You know I don’t know any plays. You’d be better off asking Hamid.”

“I know you _read_ , Zolf. Haven’t you ever wanted to watch a Cambell scene in real time?”

“No,” Zolf lies. Wilde raises an eyebrow. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Any scene you like. As a thank you.”

Zolf bristles. “You don’t need to _thank_ me, what the hell are you—”

“Not for yesterday,” Wilde says, and takes a deep breath. He’s still flushed, but his eyes, when they meet Zolf’s, are warm and sincere. “For coming to work with me when I asked, and for Japan, and for trusting me even when I was at my worst. Because I need you too, and I’d rather not wait until we have to take another trip to the astral plane to tell you.”

“…Well,” Zolf says thickly. He blinks a few times, clears his throat. “That’s, uh. That’s all right, then.”

“I thought so,” Wilde says, prim. “Now, please give me something to work with. I need a muse.”

“I’m no one’s _muse,”_ Zolf grumbles, but he gives it a shot anyway. “Can you do the garden scene?”

Wilde tilts his head. “I’m not as prolific a Cambell scholar as you are, I’m afraid. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Come on, you know which one I mean—when William comes back! I’ve seen you reading _Passions_ , the garden bit is everyone’s favorite.”

Wilde grins. “My personal favorite scenes from _When Passions Collide_ would not be suitable for reenactment in a public setting.” 

“Well _some of us_ read for the plot,” Zolf sniffs. “Not my fault you don’t know how to appreciate literature.”

That gets him laughing, and it’s the laugh Zolf has learned to love: the one that takes him by surprise and leaves him sputtering and graceless and honest and _fuck_ Poseidon, honestly, because if Zolf is capable of making Wilde laugh like this, then he’s closer to divinity than he’s ever been.

“Don’t see what you’re laughin’ at,” he says, for show. “‘Oh, I’m Oscar Wilde, I went to Trinity and Oxford and wrote a book and a couple plays so now I know _everything_ —’”

“I definitely don’t know everything. If I did, you wouldn’t surprise me so often, and that would be a real pity.”

“That’s me. Full of mystery.”

“My own Byronic hero.”

“What’s he got to do with anything?”

“Absolutely nothing, thank the gods.” Wilde starts snickering again.

Zolf elbows him. “Now you’re just stalling. Come on, I was promised a show.”

“Demanding,” Wilde teases, but he sits up straight. “One thoroughly censored garden reunion, as requested.”

This time, when Wilde begins to sing, Zolf recognizes the tune: an old traveling song, the one he’d ended up singing to himself during the bow bar party after a few too many drinks. It’s sweeter in Wilde’s voice, the clumsy translation from Dwarven to English sounding more like poetry, and the spell builds with no sign of the failure from earlier. Zolf holds his breath, hoping.

Wilde does something complicated with his hands, and then—there they are, garden balcony and all. Zolf’s favorite characters, the ones who gave him a source of joy through the lowest moments of his life, so lifelike their breath fogs in the frigid air. Zolf would have expected Wilde to set it up like a stage play, but it instead feels like he’s peering through a window to another plane: the edges of the illusion blur into a world lit theatrically by moonlight, Jennifer’s forlorn figure by the balcony doors frozen in time, not yet aware that the love of her life is alive and waiting behind her.

(It strikes him, then, that Wilde must also know this scene very well, to be able to replicate it so perfectly—but he’s always suspected that Wilde is a secret sap.)

As the spell settles, Wilde’s singing drops to a low hum, sustaining rather than conjuring. He grins at Zolf, proud of himself and giddy with it.

Gods, Zolf loves him.

“Well done, Oscar,” he says softly. Wilde winks, then turns his attention back to his illusions. Slowly, they begin to move; William reaches out and Jennifer turns, crying out in surprise and joy—

And Zolf leans back to watch, gladly losing himself in the surety of a happy ending.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m over on Tumblr @lenaellsi posting the occasional RQG or TMA fanart! Title is from End of the World by Ingrid Michaelson, which drives me absolutely insane when I think about it in the context of Zolf and Wilde


End file.
